Interview
by BeyondCanon
Summary: [Prompt Challenge] Brittany is a sports journalist. Her next piece is an interview with Santana Lopez, rising MMA star.
1. Interview

Several weeks ago I started a** prompt challenge** on my Tumblr. You drop me a prompt on my ask, I'll fill it if I'm seduced by it.

A few of those will be posted here. This is one of them.

* * *

**INTERVIEW**

She greets Brittany with a warm smile as she opens the door to her house.

She's in jeans shorts and a white tank top, and she's hotter than every New Mexico summer combined. Her hair is long and thick, black as midnight, held in a loose ponytail; her nails are short and well-polished and her hands are actually very soft when she shakes Brittany's hand.

Brittany wonders how those MMA women manage to look so good and so feral at the same time.

"Welcome to my home, Miss Pierce," she says, gesturing for Brittany to enter.

Brittany brushes her off. "I'm not a mom, so you'll have to call me by my first name."

"You'll have to call me Santana, then," she says, winking at Brittany as she walks them in.

Brittany adjusts the heavy bag on her shoulder and watches the way Santana walks.

The house is clean and bright, full of soft colors and earthly tones. Brittany likes the greens and the browns and how it smells sweet and quiet, very unlike Santana Lopez's Latina Hurricane stage persona.

They go to an outer area, very green and sunny, with a small pool and a barbecue area. Santana sits on a hardwood armchair, while Brittany chooses the two-seater bench with matching cushions.

She leaves her things on the wooden coffee table, noticing how expensive and well taken care of that set is, just like everything else around her. The grass is fresh and cut and the pool is clear as day. The furniture inside, even if a little old, has the comfortable, preserved warmth of family. "You've got a lovely house."

"Family inheritance," she says, reaching out to pour them both a glass of lemonade. "My family has lived here for generations."

"Really?" The glass sweats deliciously, and Brittany licks her lips in anticipation.

Brittany already knows this is going to be the type of unpretentious, cool interview that she loves.

Santana smiles at her again, irradiating warmth. "Yes. My great-great-great-grandfather won a bet somewhere in the 1800s and he used the money to buy the first piece of land he could get his hands on. "

"That's interesting," Brittany says before taking a big gulp of that surprisingly delicious lemonade. "And this is delicious."

"Family recipe," Santana answers, stretching back on her chair and relaxing. "Not telling the press, though."

Brittany smiles, making a mental note of how many times Santana mentions family. She grabs her things and places the recorder on the coffee table between them.

"Let's start."

—

Santana is very easy to talk to, and she doesn't seem the least bit impressed by her first big interview, the first exclusive piece on her by a national magazine.

She's the fastest-rising and most gorgeous woman in the MMA scene, well, ever, but Santana brushes Brittany off, shrugging. "I put in the work, that's all."

Brittany has seen the tapes of Santana's fights, how quick on her feet Santana is, how precise her blows look on camera. "Impressive work."

Santana gives her an endearing look.

Brittany peaks at her notes. "And what about Ranger Up, that for the first time is sponsoring a woman? That's more than putting the work, and it's your first big contract."

Santana nods, a satisfied look on her face. "I'm happy to see the results of my work. Life for an MMA fighter isn't always easy. It's hard to make ends meet when you're just getting into it."

"Is that why you also modelled occasionally?"

She leaves out Santana's underwear shoot out of elegance. For now.

There's a spark in Santana's eyes. "Yes."

Brittany decides not to press it. "Is it true that you just signed a contract to be Ranger Up's face for their redesign line of women's clothing?"

Santana looks very, very satisfied with herself. It's very sensual. "I can't comment on that."

Of course she can't, not until a public announcement has been made.

"Now, about your training—"

—

Their time is up.

"I guess we'll have to pick up where we left," Santana says, standing up and offering Brittany a hand.

Brittany takes it; she's not expecting the swift and firm way Santana pulls her up, muscles on her arm rippling and tensing as she pulls Brittany up.

"I'll call you to set up another appointment," Brittany says, clearing her throat. "Thank you for your time, Santana."

"Thank you for writing this," Santana says as she grabs Brittany's bag. She carries it to the door before giving it back like a gentleman.

"I thought—" Brittany hesitates, "maybe I could see you training."

"Of course," Santana says. "How about next week?"

She tries not to think of it as a date. Her head is just dizzy with Santana's spicy perfume, that's all.

"Friday?"

—

She writes some drafts that week and organizes her already abundant notes. She also tries to discover what people wear at an MMA Training Camp.

She doesn't get very far.

She calls Puck and have him come over to watch Santana's fights, instead.

Puck's good fun.

He shoves the remains of his hot dog in his mouth before he points at the TV screen. "See that?"

Brittany frowns. "The TV?"

He grunts, pauses the video and goes back 6 seconds. His mouth is still full. "Look at her. She's got amazing footwork. How she moves and avoids that jab!" He stops the video right the moment Santana takes a step to the side. "She's light on her feet like I've never seen."

Brittany nods, happy to let him talk and teach her about the sport.

"See how she holds that woman to the ground?"

—

Santana is closing major contracts, making real money and on the way to stardom.

It's funny, then, that her car is an old Toyota truck, white and dusty and a little cranky.

Santana sighs when she sees the look on Brittany's face, adjusting the Raybans on her nose. "I know."

Brittany raises her hands in the air. "I didn't say anything."

"_No me lo dijiste pero lo pensaste_, my grandma would say." She shakes Brittany's hands when they get close enough; Santana's knuckles are slightly swollen. "You didn't say it, but you thought it."

"Your Spanish is delicious," Brittany blurts, a little dumbstruck.

"Mama is Mexican, and Dad likes to preserve our heritage," Santana answers, taking Brittany's bag from her shoulder and placing it softly on the backseat.

She opens the door for Brittany, and Brittany wonders how this person _exists_. Who does those things these days?

Brittany takes the hand Santana offers before climbing in the truck, even though she's much taller than Santana and doesn't really need it. Santana's fingers brush her wrist before she pulls away and closes the door.

"Ready to go?"

—

It turns out the truck belonged to Santana's grandfather, who died a few years back.

Santana's got that ease that comes from being certain she's loved. Brittany wonders how it feels to be so close to your family, to be so cared about.

"Lung cancer," Santana adds, her eyes on the road. "Padre smoke like a bitch, that one."

Surprised, Brittany chokes on her own saliva and coughs.

Santana snickers, touching the side of Brittany's thigh with her hand for a moment. "Sorry I'm crass." Her hand goes back to the steering wheel. "I'm trying to hold back because you're a reporter and everything, but it's hard."

Still flushing red, Brittany tries to wave her off. "No, really," she clears her throat, "you can say whatever you want."

"Isn't it actually your job to say that?"

—

It takes some time for them to get to their destination. Brittany watches the neighborhood passing by, small houses and a lot of dust, kids riding a bike and a lonely ice cream truck passing by.

It's like she's left Albuquerque for a small town.

Once they're inside Santana undresses in front of Brittany quite shamelessly, revealing shorts and a tank bra under her clothes. Her impressive abdomen belongs to a Greek Goddess, firm and built and strong, like God's offering to mankind in all His generosity.

Brittany tries to stay back as she watches Santana stretch, warm up, run a few miles, jump some rope, before hitting a punch bag with powerful high kicks that makes her thighs ripple and tremble with the impact.

Santana's body glistens with sweat so quickly, shining with the natural light coming from big windows, droplets falling on Santana's neck, going down her shoulders to her back before disappearing on her shorts.

Santana's got a focused expression, like she's getting in touch with her stage persona, slowly getting in the game.

Brittany tries to focus on scribbling down what Santana had told her on the car. It's Brittany favorite part: placing together the information like pieces of a puzzle.

"She's something, isn't she?" A blonde woman in sweats walks up to Brittany and measures her with interest. "I'm Sue, best trainer in the country."

"Brittany, reporter," Brittany answers, trying to ignore the strange feeling of being absolutely terrified of this woman. "May I ask you a few questions?"

"Just don't write something too revealing," Sue answers, shooting her a crazy look.

"Let's start with the basics," she says, grabbing her notebook. "How long have you been Santana's trainer?"

—

Hours pass.

"I hope you're not too bored," Santana says, standing in front of Brittany, properly showered and looking brilliant.

"I like watching you," Brittany answers, and it comes out _much_ more perverted than she had intended.

Santana raises an eyebrow, but thankfully says nothing about it. "I see you met Sue."

"She's scary," Brittany says, eyes wide.

"She's the best." Santana voice is firm. "Since she took over the Jackson Academy it became the best place in the country for MMA fighters."

"I bet she scares them all into winning," Brittany insists, more out of teasing than anything else.

Santana shoots her a pointed look, but it's easy to see she's amused. "You're not wrong," she gives with a shrug.

"So, where are you taking me now?"

—

Santana parks the truck in front of a restaurant.

She opens the door to Brittany and gestures for her to come in.

Brittany doesn't need to go through the door, though, to realize it's the family business.

"Santana!" A small Asian boy runs to them. Santana picks him up easily, settling him on her hip. "Vamos volar!"

Santana mouths Brittany a "just a sec" before holding the boy over her head and walking into the restaurant making airplane sounds. He giggles and giggles and moves his legs in the air.

Brittany watches by the door, a soft smile on her face.

"Don't be shy," an old woman tells her, grabbing her arm and sitting her on a table. Her thin arms somehow look strong, and she walks with the determination of someone used to command. "Just because Santana forgot her manners doesn't mean you should just stand there."

Santana puts the boy on the ground and comes back to Brittany with a slow walk, as if expecting to be scolded.

Brittany laughs.

"Hi, Abuela." Santana says, kissing the old woman's forehead. "This is Brittany, the reporter I told you about. Brittany, this is Abuela."

"Nice to meet you properly, Brittany." Abuela says, seeming satisfied with the interaction, and leaves them with the menus.

Santana sits in front of Brittany. "Sorry about that."

Brittany bites back a smile. "It's okay." She looks over at the menu.

It can't get any more Mexican.

The boy draws on the counter, scratching his head in deep thought.

"Who is he?" Brittany asks.

"My younger nephew," Santana says right as a tall and strong Asian man approaches their table.

His biceps are very appealing underneath his plain white shirt. "What can I get you, ladies?"

"This is Mike, my older brother." Santana settles her menu down. "We found him in a dumpster."

Mike rolls his eyes. "Still not over the fact I beat you at poker?"

Santana promptly ignores him. "This is Brittany, the reporter."

Brittany shoots a nervous smile. Had Santana talked about Brittany to her entire family?

"What can I get you, Brittany the reporter?"

"A Coke and a hotdog."

Santana smiles.

Wait, is she being judged by her food choice?

This feels too much like a date. Oh God.

"I'll have that powerful green juice and an omelet. Gotta have my protein," Santana says, flexing her muscles and practically making Brittany stare at them.

Mike shoots Brittany a funny look.

"Anything else?"

—

A teenage boy comes from the back and immediately frowns at Brittany.

Santana takes their empty plates to the counter. "That's Jake, my cousin. Ignore him."

Santana whispers in Brittany's ear, hot breath against Brittany's neck. "He thinks I don't know he has a huge crush on me."

Brittany smiles, not missing the delighted look on Santana's face. "Is he thinking—?" She gestures between them.

Santana nods and places her hand over Brittany's. Brittany knows it's just teasing, but it feels nice and she intertwines their fingers.

Jake shoots them another look before going back inside.

Santana breaks the contact and laughs like a child.

It's very lovely.

She decides it's time to ask. "So, I have to know—"

"The underwear photo shoot." Santana raises an eyebrow. "I knew it was coming."

Brittany bites her lip. "Yes."

"Mike lost his college scholarship. Abuela needed surgery. I have two brothers in high school that could use a college fund."

Brittany remains in silence for a moment, the implications sinking in.

Santana _really_ is all about family.

"That's nice."

Santana winks, making the conversation lighter. "It's part of the job. You tell me the dream and I help you build it, right? That's family."

Brittany begins to fall in love with Santana right there.

—

She's covering a baseball game and live tweeting.

She thinks about Santana.

She's talked to her more than enough for her piece; she needs to write, but she wants to talk to Santana again and again.

It makes her a little sad that it's the only connection she has with Santana, and it'll be over soon.

Her phone rings.

"So, what are you doing this weekend?"

—

It's sunny.

Santana looks at ease on the road, her arm hanging lazily from the driver's window.

Brittany likes it.

She's not so sure about mountain biking, though.

"Don't make that face," Santana says with an amused smile.

Brittany's face suddenly feels very warm. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Santana raises her eyebrows. "You're a sports journalist; you're _supposed_ to like sports."

"I like watching them," Brittany insists, stubborn, but Santana sees right through her.

She hasn't felt this comfortable in a long while.

A long moment passes, filled only by the alt-country radio station. "You said Mike lost his scholarship."

"Knee injury." Santana's mouth turns very serious. "He was on a dance scholarship."

Brittany feels suddenly very stupid for breaching the subject. "I'm sorry."

Damn her curiosity.

"It's okay," Santana says, her fingers brushing Brittany's thigh for a second, "he's happy now."

"What about you?"

"Me? Happy?" She seems to think about it for a moment. "I don't know. Right now I have my truck, my bike, and you. It's enough."

It makes Brittany blush furiously. Again.

Santana pulls the truck to a stop.

"Ready to go?"

—

She is not ready for this.

It's a breathtaking sight, she has to admit.

But it's also hard and exhausting going up mountains and hidden tracks, and it's especially hard to follow Santana's lead.

Does Santana really need to be so physical and active and good looking?

"C'mon!" Santana gestures, waiting for Brittany to catch up. "This will be fun."

Brittany swallows dry and sips her water bottle. She's not an adrenaline kind of girl.

It's all the way down, steep and unsteady. Brittany's fears of falling and dying decide to stir and wake.

"I don't think—"

Santana places both feet on the ground. Her chest is falling and rising faster than usual, and the sunscreen on her skin makes her shine, slick and smooth.

She touches the small of Brittany's back.

"You can do it," she says quietly. "You've got this far."

It's hard. "What if I fall?"

"I'll catch you," Santana says with a smile.

"And tell my dad you're responsible for my sudden death?"

—

Santana takes Brittany home.

"Thank you for today," Brittany says.

There's a glorious rush of adrenaline running through her veins.

"My pleasure," Santana answers, leaving the car to carry Brittany's things to the door.

Brittany follows, and she leans in to kiss Santana when they're at her doorstep. But it would be very inappropriate.

"See you around?"

—

She finishes the piece, and her editor says it's one of her best.

The magazine stares at her, shiny and straight from the press. It's her first cover, and she feels on top of the world.

She calls Santana first.

"What are you doing tonight?"

—

Santana has two spare tickets.

Puck hugs Brittany so hard when she tells him that she can't breathe. "I love you! VIP tickets?!"

He even endures Brittany's screaming and frowning and squeezing his arm whenever Santana takes a hit.

The way Santana moves is so fast and dangerous; she explores every single available inch, using new angles and combinations to take her opponent down.

It's actually very arousing, when you think about it.

"Do you also have a boner? 'Cos that's hot." Puck whispers in her ear when Santana's grinding on top of another woman.

She slaps his arm, holding back a smile. "Idiot."

He wiggles his stupid eyebrows. "See? Lady boner."

Brittany bites her lower lip.

"So you'll help me sneak in the exclusive access area?"

—

Puck does help.

And by helping, he means distracting two women at the same time with his seductive ways.

If everything goes wrong she's got her journalist card to play.

A big, black man stops her. "Credentials."

Damn.

"She's with me," Santana shows up right on time. She's sweaty and sore under her black robe; her voice is raspy and low.

She takes Brittany by the hand to her own quarters. Brittany caresses Santana's bruised knuckles on the way.

Brittany closes the door behind her. It's a simple place, generic in its couch and mirror and closet.

Santana drops Brittany's hand.

Brittany gives Santana the magazine. "You made your first cover."

"I look good," Santana says with a smirk, perusing the magazine until she finds her interview.

"You do," Brittany agrees, but she's not talking about the photo.

Santana's eyes have a certain sparkle Brittany doesn't understand. "Does that mean you have no professional ties to me anymore?"

Brittany licks her lips. "Yes."

She places the magazine on a small table nearby and comes closer. "No ethical obligation?"

"None," Brittany says, holding her breath a little bit.

Santana's lips are very inviting.

She notices Brittany's stare and wets her lips very slowly. "I'm going to kiss you, then."

She presses her body against Brittany's. "Hope you're okay with that."

Brittany nods a little too excited; Santana laughs before standing on her toes and joining their lips.


	2. Rollerblading

**Important:** This story will **not** become a multichapter. Consider each chapter another glimpse within the same verse, a one-shot complete in itself.

I'd suggest you subscribe so you won't miss if I decide to add more to this verse! :) (I make no promises, though.)

* * *

**ROLLERBLADING**

She's at her desk, typing away furiously because deadlines are the bane of her existence.

She picks up her phone without looking at the screen. "You'll get the piece by the end of the day, don't worry."

A familiar laugh ensues. "I'm not worried."

Her fingers freeze over the keyboard and she clears her throat. "Santana?"

"Yes," Santana answers, the smile clear in her voice. "Hi."

Brittany feels a little silly. "Hi. Sorry. I thought it was someone else."

Santana hums. "I figured." There's the sound of someone speaking in the background and her _just a minute_ mumbled back. "I'm just calling to say I won't be around much."

"Oh," Brittany answers, trying not to sound too disappointed. Maybe Santana didn't want to see her again? Maybe being caught by her coach as she pinned Brittany to a wall had been too much?

"Coach gets more and more insane the closer we are to the tournament." Santana sighs. "I'll be training like there's no tomorrow."

"It's okay, I mean—" Brittany bites her lip. "I don't want to get in your way."

Santana sighs. "I'll try to call you on the weekend, okay? I just—" she stops short and talks to someone a little more harshly before speaking into the phone again. "I really liked going out with you."

Brittany smiles ear to ear. "Me too."

"I have to go now." A small pause. "But I _will_ call you."

"I'll be waiting."

-.-.-

It's a bright and warm Sunday morning when Santana _finally_ calls her.

"The family's going rollerblading this afternoon. Wanna tag along?" Even her voice sounds great, calm and smooth with a hint of a smile.

Brittany bites her lip, stirring the coffee in front of her. "I don't have any skates."

She also doesn't have the slightest clue how to rollerblade, but she's not going to pass on the opportunity to see Santana.

Santana doesn't laugh as much as snorts into the phone, making Brittany blush because she's a horrible liar and Santana can already tell. "You can borrow Jake's old ones. I think they'll fit. Be there at four."

It's probably a little too soon to say _I miss you_, or _I really want to see you_, so Brittany just says her usual goodbyes and hangs up.

-.-.-

Santana's Rayban sunglasses slide off her nose when she looks at Brittany in a silent challenge.

Brittany looks at the rollerblades hanging on the tip of Santana's fingers and gets in the truck. "I bet they won't fit."

Santana, standing by the door and smirking, gives Brittany's knee two soft slaps and gestures for Brittany to turn to her. "Oh, I bet they will." She takes off Brittany's flats, tips of her fingers grazing Brittany's ankle and making it tingle.

She puts a pair of worn black socks on Brittany's feet with the easy practice of an older sister, squeezing her calves before reaching for the skates. They prove themselves to be a little more difficult, and the little frown she makes is the most adorable thing in the universe.

She looks very satisfied with herself when they obviously fit. "Told you, Cinderella."

Brittany wants to kiss the daylights out of her.

-.-.-

She's back to her flats when they arrive at their destination, a cross between a park and a sports center that she had never even known existed.

Everyone is already there; she breathes deeply to release the butterflies in her stomach. She's meeting the family, again, and there seems to be even more of them.

There's Mike and an Asian girl fussing over Santana's nephew – she makes a mental note to ask Santana his name – as well as Abuela sitting on a bench with another woman. Three teenage boys are already getting started, running in circles around each other, and Brittany frowns because it's getting really confusing to know who's who.

Santana smiles, the back of her hand brushing against Brittany's. "Afraid to fall in front of everyone, Princess Brittany?"

Brittany blushes furiously and shoots Santana a look – or tries to, at least. "Am not."

Santana grins like she knows better and nests her hand in the crook of Brittany's elbow, pulling her. "C'mon, let's meet everyone."

Abuela is the first to approach her and kiss both her cheeks. "It's so nice to see you again, Brittany. I'm glad Santana had the good sense to invite you."

She shoots a glare at Santana, who just stares at the ground like she's 10.

Brittany beams and nudges Santana's shoulder. "I'm just as glad."

She tries to make a mental list, after that: Mike and Tina, married and proud parents of Arturo, 4; Abuela is Gloria's mother, not Vince's; Vince is a fireman and Gloria is a cook; there's Jake the cousin and Matt and David the younger brothers, the three of them in the same high school class.

Brittany loses track after that.

Thankfully, little Arturo comes to Santana and raises his arms in the air. "Up!" He says, and Santana happily obliges.

Santana turns with him in her arms, so he's looking at Brittany. "Do you remember Brittany, Arturo?"

He nods. "Tu novia, verdad?"

Brittany tries to desperately understand, because the face Santana's making is both cute and curious.

"No, cariño," Santana clears her throat, "my friend."

He looks at Brittany, and then back to Santana, considering the situation. "Can she be my friend too?"

The both of them laugh, and Santana tickles his belly until he's begging for her to stop. Brittany offers her hand to Arturo. "Best friends," she says; he shakes her hand like a big boy.

-.-.-

She tries to stall as much as she can, but it's inevitable.

The teenage boys are already on a ramp, doing all sorts of cool maneuvers under Abuela's attentive stare, and little Arturo is impressively good with his skateboard.

Brittany, on the other hand, sucks at rollerblading. She holds on to a bench, watching Vince and Gloria hold hands, the soft energy of a decade-long companionship as they skate side by side.

She tries again, and even manages to slide more than a few inches when her feet slide further than they should and she loses balance, body falling back.

Vince and Gloria are there to catch her before she falls. They hold Brittany's hands and take her along, easing her into balance.

"Sorry," Brittany says, blushing _again_, because she shouldn't be a disaster in front of her future girlfriend's parents.

Gloria shakes her free hand, effectively dismissing the situation. "Nonsense. We all had our fair share of falling and tumbling before."

-.-.-

It turns out rollerblading comes easily when there are two people holding you.

Brittany can't stop the self-satisfied grin that comes after a few minutes of not falling on her butt. "I get why Santana is such a ball of energy now."

Vince nods; he's also wearing Raybans, and Brittany realizes Santana's chin and nose are a carbon copy of her father's. "You try having five kids running around the house. You'd sign them up for every sports class you could, too."

Brittany tries to imagine the mess and the noise and a small Santana making all kinds of trouble with her brothers.

"Your interview was very nice," Gloria interrupts her thoughts, all motherly pride. "We bought everyone in the family a copy, even Arturo."

Brittany smiles and nods. "I hope he didn't eat the pictures or something."

Vince's laugh is deep and loud. He squeezes Brittany's hand; his skin is rough against hers. "We stopped him before it was too late."

There's a quiet warmth to the entire situation, like she's always been there.

-.-.-

It's harder when you have to stand on your own, though.

She manages to skate for a full two minutes before a crack on the pavement makes her lose her balance, tumbling forwards and then backwards, bracing herself for the fall.

Then Santana's firm hands come to rescue, holding her waist and keeping her in place, Santana's body pressing against her from behind, hot and strong; one hand slides to Brittany's stomach to steady her.

"You're not falling on my watch," she whispers in Brittany's ear and it really shouldn't be this sexy.

Brittany basks in the feeling of sun and Santana; her palm runs over Santana's arm, back and forth. "Don't you guys ever do anything, you know… sitting down?"

Santana laughs in her ear, making her shiver. "Not really." Her lips brush against Brittany's shoulder.

She moves to stand in front of Brittany, smiling, and she tugs Brittany firm and gentle, until Brittany is hesitantly sliding forward. "You can do it."

Hands clasped and Santana's eyes on hers, Brittany feels very safe.

-.-.-

Her brow furrows in concentration and she bites her lip.

After Jake's relentless teasing, she's got to do it right. Santana would probably rather be rocking the ramps instead of babysitting Brittany. Even little Arturo could rock wheels better than her.

She sighs in frustration when she has to hold onto a bench.

Santana shows up by her side and wraps an arm around her waist. Brittany sinks into the touch, so warm and natural.

"We can leave if you don't like it," Santana says, her thumb caressing circles over Brittany's shirt. "I'm sorry. It was just—my only free afternoon and I thought it'd be nice to have you here."

The face she makes is almost enough to make Brittany forget she's standing on _wheels_ and she can fall and die at any moment.

"Don't be silly, you're grea—" she begins to say before ending the sentence abruptly. "_This_ is great, I mean. It's fun."

Santana gives her a soft smile and nods. "Maybe a break, though?"

Brittany nods. Maybe this is when they kiss?

"Tia!" Arturo has other plans, though. "Ice cream?"

When she sun is setting, everyone says their goodbyes warmly, hugging Brittany close.

She hugs them back and tells them she'll surely show up for their next Sunday Fun, and Santana looks at her fondly, like she wants Brittany to be there too, like Brittany belongs.

She opens the door for Brittany before she goes around and hops into her own seat. "Thank you for today."

"No, thank _you_." Brittany says, leaning forward and closing the distance between them. Santana's lips taste like strawberry ice cream and they're still cold as they slide against Brittany's, slow and certain.

Santana breaks the kiss with a smile and starts the car. "Let's get you home."

Her hand rests on Brittany's thigh most of the way.


	3. Date

**Important:** This story will **not** become a multichapter. Consider each chapter another glimpse within the same verse, a one-shot complete in itself.

I'd suggest you subscribe so you won't miss if I decide to add more to this verse! :) (I make no promises, though.)

* * *

**DATE**

It's a little funny how Santana always calls and never texts.

Brittany answers right away, ignoring the fluttering in her chest. "Hi."

"Hi," Santana says, taking a deep breath. "Can we go on a date?"

Brittany doesn't smile as much as beams, sliding down on her chair and hiding behind her computer screen. "Yes. It's a free country."

Santana laughs for a few seconds before stopping herself short. "Smartass."

Brittany shrugs, even if Santana can't see it. "Mom always told me I was a genius."

"Come with me on a date. No family. No coach. Just you and me?" Santana asks, the confidence in her voice faltering a little. "Saturday?"

"Just you and me," Brittany repeats, tongue darting out to moisten her upper lip in anticipation.

-.-.-

What if after the date they get naked and sweaty? Do the rumpty-bumpty, the horizontal mambo, the home run? You know, do the nasty?

Santana's a shark, a sexy fiery goddess, and Brittany is… not.

Should she wax, though? What is a Brazilian wax? Should she try it?

-.-.-

It's one of those times Brittany really hates cell phones.

She sees Santana's name on the damn screen – and maybe the picture she surreptitiously took when the family was out rollerblading – and she listens to the ringtone, but trying to slide to the right to actually answer the call does nothing.

Her phone turns off of its own accord and she curses, throwing the damn thing on the passenger seat and making a sharp turn to the right.

She's got some time to kill.

It's 6pm and Santana's probably home, right?

-.-.-

Santana _is_ home.

She's wearing black leggings and an obviously old t-shirt, faded grey from too many washing cycles, with a Flashdance style neckline, broad and revealing, and her hair is up in a messy ponytail.

She leans on the doorframe, looking very cozy, very tired, and absolutely gorgeous.

"My phone isn't working," Brittany says, still standing outside, her hands behind her back, "and I was on my way home, so I thought I'd come over."

A lazy smile sneaks itself onto Santana's lips. "Hi." She takes Brittany's hand and pulls her closer for a slow kiss.

It's a very good kiss.

"I can leave, too." Brittany tries to sound nonchalant, her own heart racing. "If I'm interrupting something."

Santana just takes her purse and leads the way inside.

-.-.-

It's the first time she enters Santana's house as a – future girlfriend? Possible date material? Make-out buddy? – not a reporter.

Santana sets Brittany's purse down on the dinner table and leans against it, facing Brittany. Brittany licks her lips. "So—why did you call?"

Santana grabs a white envelope on the table. "I got you this." She offers it to Brittany; it's the perfect excuse to take those few steps forward and be close to Santana again.

She opens it under Santana's attentive gaze. They're tickets. MMA tickets.

"Two for every one of my scheduled fights," Santana says quietly. "I thought you and your Mohawk friend would like that. Best seats."

She looks at Santana, heart aching in tenderness, Santana's hesitant hand brushing against hers waiting for her reaction. Santana clears her throat, misreading her silence. "You don't have to go if you're not in the mood, though. You have other things, and it's okay if you don't even—"

"Stop." She cups Santana's face between her hands. "I love it." She kisses Santana softly, once. "You're cute." She kisses her again. "You're such a cute little panda."

Santana grabs her shirt to make sure they're as close as possible; she's warm and breathy against Brittany. "I'm a fighter," she says, kissing Brittany's lower lip and nipping it. "I'm not cute."

Brittany presses their hips together, moving her mouth to a tan neck. "Sure you are," she says, the tip of her tongue swirling under Santana's ear.

Santana clings to her a little harder, breath catching, and Brittany knows she's won the argument.

-.-.-

Santana's not wearing a bra; Brittany groans.

It's a gift from the Gods of Earth, she's sure, because when her hands sneak under Santana's shirt they meet nothing but skin, and Santana breathes out a "Britt" so sexy it should be illegal.

The fact that she's supposed to be leaving now is pushed to the back of her mind, because Santana is sitting on the dinner table – she's fondling Santana on a dinner table, _God_ she's gotten to second base in their first 15 minutes alone – and her legs are wrapping around Brittany, strong muscles keeping her in place.

Brittany nips at Santana's pulse point as her hands cup those glorious breasts, thumbs working circles on tan skin.

"Britt," Santana says again, back arching and mouth half open.

"I like it when you call me that," Brittany answers, rolling Santana's nipples between her fingers. Santana curses in Spanish, breath hot against Brittany's lips as she pulls them for a demanding kiss.

Brittany's work phone decides to ring and she decides she hates the thing.

She takes it from her pocket – Santana whines when her hands retreat – to turn off her "you're late" alarm. "Dammit."

Santana places feather light kisses on her jaw. "Everything alright?"

"I've got to go," Brittany moans, her face in Santana's hair as Santana scratches her lower back. "Work." She mumbles, feeling Santana lick the shell of her ear. "Please."

Santana nods, leaning away from Brittany; the look on her face alone is enough for Brittany to spontaneously combust.

"To be continued," she says, pulling Brittany in for one last kiss.

-.-.-

Damn you, baseball.

-.-.-

She buys a new phone because she's not taking any risks.

-.-.-

Man, she loves pastrami. And mustard.

"Yes, every game," she explains, taking a bite of her sandwich and speaking with her mouth full because Puck's being 10x more disgusting than her. "And if she goes further into the competition, she'll get those tickets for us too."

"You have to marry her, man." Puck eats his chicken wings, his fingers red with sauce, and he's staring at the tickets like it's Christmas. "It's an order."

She rolls her eyes, trying not to blush. "Your fetish for women fighters is going too far, Puck."

"But she's got to ask my permission first," he continues, downing his Coke and ignoring everything she's said. "And she better get some good shit to bribe me into giving you away."

She rolls her eyes at him, but she's smiling.

He takes another bite, sauce on his chin. "Hey, you think we can get VIP?"

-.-.-

She gets a Brazilian.

She almost dies in the process.

-.-.-

It's _all_ dirty.

Her favorite clothes, dirty and smelling faintly of sweat and ketchup.

Why, for the love of God, hadn't she done her laundry?

And why does she have a _male_ best friend? That is no good for borrowing clothes or asking for fashion tips. Puck's sense of fashion splits into two axes: comfortable-not comfortable and fuckable-not fuckable.

Damn him.

Shirts and skirts and pants pile up on her bed as she curses and tries to decide on something.

She checks the weather for the second time to check the temperature – which is just a variation of hot, because it's a New Mexico summer – before she settles for shorts and a white peasant blouse, because Santana said _no dressing up_ very categorically.

-.-.-

She smoothes her blouse over with the palm of her hand once, then twice, as she steps out of her car.

Santana is standing on the porch and she's all kinds of gorgeous.

"Hi," Brittany says, swallowing dry.

Santana's hair is falling over her shoulders, black and thick and lush, and her white shorts display a fair amount of toned, strong legs. But Brittany's favorite is the shirt: oxford navy blue, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, fabric framing Santana's body very loosely and enough buttons undone to display those glorious, glorious breasts.

The fact that Santana is still on the porch and Brittany is standing one step lower makes for the perfect angle of appreciation.

She's still thinking about _to be continued_.

Santana's hand on her hair snaps her out of her daze. "_Mi linda_, you're staring." She looks very satisfied with herself, that evil one.

Brittany blushes furiously, eyes shooting up to meet Santana's. Grabbing Santana's shirt – so fresh, so soft – swiftly, she pulls them against each other. "You look really good."

Santana hums in agreement, enveloping her arms around Brittany's shoulders and nuzzling her neck. "You look better."

They're warm together, like the beginning of summer; Brittany's palms on Santana's lower back, under her shirt, make sure they remain pressed against each other.

Santana kisses her, grabbing her hair and taking control. She sucks Brittany's lower lip, pulls it, and sucks it again; her tongue darts out to trace Brittany's upper lip before entering Brittany's mouth and exploring thoroughly.

Brittany sighs, head tilting a little more to the left to allow Santana to rub their tongues together, slick and wet and delicious, a little contented sigh escaping her lips.

Santana's nails scratch the back of Brittany's neck softly, up and down, and they kiss until they're breathless and flushed.

-.-.-

It's a drive-in movie.

The _Albuquerque 6_ famous drive-in, restored and rebuilt and pretty and it looks just like when Brittany was little and her mom drove her there and—gosh.

Brittany looks at Santana, and she looks at the six – six! – big screens, and then she looks at Santana again, and Santana's just there, smiling smug and satisfied.

She kisses Santana, holding Santana's face between her hands because she's wonderful and unassuming and she's invited Brittany into her life and her family like it's no big deal, like she already trusts her, and Santana kisses back slow and gentle.

"Wow," Santana says when they part.

Brittany kisses her again.

-.-.-

The back of the truck becomes a mess of blankets and soft, colorful pillows. There's a _huge_ container with salty popcorn, and another with sweet popcorn, and there's sparkling water and soda _and_ iced tea.

"I don't know your favorite drink," Santana says over the buzz of cars parking and people chatting. She looks brilliant, and open, so Brittany kneels in front of her and touches her chin.

"Iced tea is perfect," she says, kissing Santana's mouth briefly before turning around and settling between Santana's legs.

Maybe she shouldn't hold back so much; she spins too many conversations around, not ready to shed light on herself.

Santana never pressures. She kisses the back of Brittany's neck, one hand on Brittany's hip warm and reassuring as the other reaches for the salty popcorn.

"You know, there are two types of people," Brittany says, listening to Santana's attentive _hm_ behind her. "The kind that eats popcorn throughout the movie and the gluttons that finish it all during the trailers."

Santana laughs and snorts and then coughs, her forehead against Brittany's back as she catches her breath.

"Just saying," Brittany bites back a smile, eyes flickering to the screen as the projection begins.

-.-.-

She has _fantasies_, okay?

Maybe some of them involve the movies, and maybe the way Santana's hand is resting on her stomach, under her shirt, isn't helping _at all_.

Her breath catches in her throat when Santana scratches lazily around her navel, their bodies tightly together.

Santana has to notice it, because she does it again, and then again. "San," Brittany breathes out, but Santana's lips are already wrapped around her earlobe.

"What?" Santana says sweetly, hand diving into Brittany's hair to pull it aside and allow her to take a long lick, drawing on the curve of Brittany's neck, and then those full wonderful lips are closing on her pulse point and sucking.

She bites back the groan, her mouth partially open and her head thrown back. "We shouldn't—" she begins, but she's not trying very hard and Santana's bite shoots straight between her legs.

"No one's looking," Santana answers, voice raspy and low in Brittany's ear. Her hand rises further, reaching Brittany's breast to cup it over fabric. "It's a good movie," she hums, her free hand scratching Brittany's thigh from her knees to the edge of her shorts.

Brittany turns her head to kiss Santana, suck her lower lip and then kiss her again, a little desperate, small whimpers at the back of her throat when Santana takes over, demanding.

"You're the one who left me hanging," Santana whispers, working a sore bruise on Brittany's pulse point with her teeth and her lips and the flat of her tongue. "Didn't you?" She has both hands on Brittany's breasts now, massaging and teasing and not giving Brittany what she needs yet.

"I'm sorry," Brittany hisses, arching her back. "Even though I didn't— All I wanted—"

"What did you want, Britt?" Santana's voice is almost a moan, a low grumble that practically _makes_ Brittany spread her legs further, inviting.

She doesn't even care anymore if they're seen or not, if there's an action scene playing on the screens, if she's being quiet or not – she lets out a strangled moan, hand reaching for Santana's to get her where she needs it.

"I think now we're even," Santana says, resting back against the truck, hands vanishing from Brittany's body.

Brittany turns around _indignant_, her face flushed, and she catches the smirk in Santana's lips. "You didn't."

Santana steals a chaste kiss. "Just giving you a preview, _linda_." Her knuckles graze the front of Brittany's shorts. "To be continued in private."

Sweet Mary, mother of God.


End file.
